Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: June 16, 2025
I should hesitate to say that Charlotte Brontë's is a better book than Thackeray's, but I think it might well be maintained that it is a better story. I will cheerfully answer for the fact that, if they had been written by George Lewes, no one would ever have read them. Those who have read his book on Robespierre will have no doubt about my meaning.
I remember Miss Bronte's shiver at recalling the pang she felt when, after having searched in the little hollows and sheltered crevices of the moors for a lingering spray of heather just one spray, however withered to take in to Emily, she saw that the flower was not recognised by the dim and indifferent eyes. Yet, to the last, Emily adhered tenaciously to her habits of independence.
The dwelling is of gray stone, two stories high, of plain and somber aspect. A wing is added, the little window-panes are replaced by larger squares, the stone floors are removed or concealed, curtains forbidden by Mr. Bronte's dread of fire shade the window, and the once bare interior is furbished and furnished in modern style; but the arrangement of the apartments is unchanged.
Acting on the conviction, which I have all along entertained, that where Charlotte Bronte's own words could be used, no others ought to take their place, I shall make extracts from this series, according to their dates. "Jan. 30th, 1846.
Bronte's orders, to see how I was, for that he had been quite miserable ever since he got Miss 's letter.
She had sufficiently recovered her normal attitude, by this time, to pose to herself, now as a heroine of one of Charlotte Bronte's novels, now as a milder and more refined sample of injured innocence culled from the pages of Charlotte Yonge.
Charlotte Bronte's writing seemed to have been traced with a cambric needle, and Thackeray's writing, while marvelously neat and precise, was so small that the best of eyes were needed to read it. Likewise the writing of Captain Marryatt was so microscopic that when he was interrupted in his labors he was obliged to mark the place where he left off by sticking a pin in the paper.
The brain is there, but the heart seems left out. I admire, but I don't love, George Eliot; and her life is far sadder to me than Miss Bronte's, because, in spite of the genius, love, and fame, she missed the light without which no soul is truly great, good, or happy. 'Yes'm, I know; but still it's so romantic and sort of new and mysterious, and she was great in one sense.
And here we found the shrine of poor Charlotte Bronté's many weary pilgrimages hither, the burial-place of her friend and schoolmate Martha Taylor, the Jessy Yorke of "Shirley," the spot where, under "green sod and a gray marble headstone, cold, coffined, solitary, Jessy sleeps below." For a long time "the Dean" had had a certain familiarity for us.
The author of the phrase "The child contracted a partiality for his toys" had no need to fear any authors she might meet at dinner. Against Charlotte Bronte's sorrows her worse manner of English never stands for a moment. Those vain phrases fall from before her face and her bared heart. To the heart, to the heart she took the shafts of her griefs.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking